Eighteen Hundred & Twenty Six
by stephy.xo
Summary: "Today should have been our fifth anniversary, baby. We could have been together eighteen hundred and twenty six days. And every hour that you're not here, I just miss you a little bit more." LoVe.


AN: So, this is my first VM fic in a very long time. I'm not entirely sure where this is going just yet, nor whether it's worth continuing... so please review to let me know. This first chapter is a little short (sorry, I hate writing short chapters), and a little vague. Everything will become clear. (As long as I do my job right...)

Disclaimer: I own nothing, etc etc.

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**Eighteen Hundred and Twenty Six**

Chapter One: Long-Distance Lullaby**  
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_[I've missed you since you moved away from here, and it's not the same this year]_

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Bleary eyed, Logan scanned the keypad on his phone. He had known since before he went to sleep last night that his fingers would run over the touch screen dialling a number he knew he would never – _could never_ – forget. Today would have been – _should have been _– their fifth anniversary, and he had to hear her voice. Of course she wouldn't pick up, she never picked up. But for ten sweet seconds, he could pretend that she was just in the shower or didn't hear her phone or had no cell reception. She'd call back later. But of course, she never did.

He knew he'd had one too many drinks, that everything he wanted to say would come out slightly wrong and that if – _a huge if _– she ever listened to the message she would glean that he simply has not changed at all. She would be left thinking that he's the same boy she used to know, who relied too heavily on shots of liquor and a string of ladies to get him through the tougher facets of life. He let out a hard chuckle to himself. If only she could see him now, see what he had done with his life, see how much was different to when she was around, she would be forced to realise how wrong she was. That's why he had to call her, leave her a message, get her to really see him, tell her everything, win her back.

Her cell phone was switched off – as it seemingly had been for the last three and a half years - and his breath caught in his throat as he heard the click of her voicemail service. The anticipation of hearing the words he had come to memorise almost overwhelmed him, and all of a sudden he felt nervous.

"_Hey, you've reached Veronica. I can't answer right now but leave me a message and I'll try to get back to you. Thanks!"_

On first listen, it was simple and unremarkable, but Logan had come to appreciate it more than that. He had analysed every single syllable: he could hear the tension in her voice as her mind had wandered to all the other things she should have been doing; he could hear the way words ran into each other, as she recorded it on her way across Hearst's food court; he could hear the smile on her face as she had caught his eye across the room and her problems had melted into insignificance. The ten second clip was so complex and nuanced; he doubted anyone else could read into it everything he could. It was just so perfectly _her_. He sucked in his breath and words tumbled from his lips before he could stop himself.

"You know, every time I go to leave you a message, I expect to find that this number has been disconnected. I guess part of me is waiting, like when that day finally comes, I know you really don't want me; that we're over."

He paused, letting the thought linger in his mind. Whilst he didn't like the idea that she had been listening to his sometimes slightly inebriated ramblings without actually replying, it occurred to him with a sudden drunken clarity that allowing him to contact was her version of a response.

"I don't suppose you really know why I'm calling you today. I know we got together and broke up so many times that one _shoulda, woulda, coulda_ kind of rolls into the next. But today… Today should have been our fifth anniversary, baby. We could have been together eighteen hundred and twenty six days. And every hour that you're not here, I just miss you a little bit more." He ran his fingers through his hair, hating how pathetic he sounded.

"I've tried to move on, V'ronica. I've tried not to call you, but sometimes there are days when I can't help myself. As clichéd as it sounds, no one gets me like you do. No one ever will. Please, just come home. Come back to me?" His voice broke as his eyes burned with a tear he refused to let fall. He knew he would be angry with himself in the morning, but he couldn't stop himself blurting out every word he'd not dared utter until now.

"I know it's late. I guess on the East coast – if that's even where you are any more – it's not even our anniversary any more. Sorry I missed it. I wanted to call you earlier, but I didn't want to call from the office, and then I got stuck at some drinks after work. Not that it matters, it's not like this woke you. I just want you to know that I've been thinking about you all day. I'll stop rambling. Crap, V'ronica. Come home. I'll be better. We'll be better. I love you. Always have, always will."

He clicked the end button, threw his phone on the glass coffee table and rose to pour himself a drink. He knew that on a weeknight and after several earlier pints it wasn't wise, but come morning he would need a hangover to concentrate on, rather than how much of an idiot he had been drunk-dialling Veronica Mars. Deciding that his best option to find sleep for the night was in front of the TV, he sought out the remote and snatched a blanket from his bedroom. Traipsing back to the living room he noticed his cell phone light up with a new text message. He rolled his eyes, knowing that at this hour it would be from an extremely drunk Dick. He downed his first scotch and poured himself a second, trying to find a comfortable position to stretch out. He reached out for his phone, just in case he needed to organise his friend a ride home from whichever Tammi, Sandi, Chantelle or Mindy's house he had found himself in. He rolled his eyes again as he read the message, a drunken declaration of everlasting bro-love wasn't exactly what he wanted right now.

He skipped through channels until he found something watchable, and tried to focus on late night sports re-runs. When he saw his phone light up again he debated whether reaching for it was even worth the effort. He stretched his arm from his cocoon and prepared himself for the worst.

Instead, ten digits across the top of his screen screamed at him. He hadn't ever been able to forget that sequence of numbers, despite how hard he had tried in the first few months. Now he was grateful: it was ingrained enough to let him drunkenly dial earlier, and he recognised it well enough now to know that it didn't matter what was displayed when he hit open, there was no way he was getting any sleep tonight. The message was short but sickly sweet: seven little words and a sign-off that made his heart surge and soar.

"_You win. I'm on my way home. Vx"_

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Thanks for taking the time to read this. Concrit is appreciated immensely :]


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